What I Know for Sure

I serve as a teacher to children in our church. Specifically, I am the teacher of the eleven-year-old girls.

This is a great job for me, because I get to be with children (from whom I learn the most), but I don't have to take any of them potty or wipe their noses or convince them to be reverent (which is my day job). So it's a break from the challenges of children and a chance to revel in what makes them so glorious.

For most of the day Sunday, I cried. And cried. And cried.

I couldn't help it.

We were talking about how each of us is a beloved child of God. And every part of me knows that this is TRUTH.

I've understood this since I was a babe. My first memories are of my mom and dad teaching me where I came from and who I am.

But even now, at the end of my thirty-fourth year, it feels so good to know.

I am a child of God.

So are you.

So is everyone.

At that makes it all mean something--mean everything.

On Discovering My Destiny

It was Emerson who said, "The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."

Well if that's true, why have I become the One the garbage man forgot? I didn't decide to be that! I truly, deeply, acutely do not want to be her. Heaven knows I've offered up my share of prayers to be the opposite of that.

But I am.

And so, I've decided the saying should be: "The only person you can become is the person who is destined to wallow in waste," because, really, what does Emerson know about trash anyway? Certainly not what I know.

I grew up in a large family. We single-handedly produced the greater percentage of measurable garbage in the suburbs of Utah county.

Every room in the house had a trash can. One child was assigned to take the trash out every day. We had two garbage cans. We filled them past capacity. The lids could barely close. We hoped the garbage man wouldn't notice.

We frequently called the widow next door to see if we could use the three-fourths of her can that she didn't need, and we filled that up until its lid couldn't close all the way, either. We wondered why the garbage man didn't notice.

There was a definitive rule in our house about never missing garbage day. But we weren't perfect. There were some close calls, for sure.

I have a vivid image in my mind of my 4'11" mother in her pajamas and my dad's snow boots, running down the drive way, heaving the cans behind her, racing the garbage truck with as much desperation and determination as an olympian in the last leg of the 100 meter sprint,  but balancing a towering pile of waste over double her height while she ran.

On those sad, sad, sad weeks when we missed the garbage truck altogether, we had to stealthily slip our extra trash in the neighbors' bins in the dark of night, after they and their watch dogs had fallen asleep. Some people doorbell-ditched baked goods; we shared our wealth of refuse, disposing of it properly and discreetly in the (mostly) nearest receptacles.

But now that I'm grown and raising a family of my own, without a sibling assigned to take my trash out for me, I am crippled in my ability to properly plan for the rubbish removal. And it's been a long lesson for me.

Part of my absentmindedness can be blamed on all those years when we lived in an apartment. It didn't matter when trash day was, because there was always a dumpster or two available to us whenever we needed it. I was in heaven. I could gut the contents of the fridge or a closet whenever I wanted and happily throw them away immediately. What luxury!

We moved into our first house--this house--on a Monday night. The next day, our nice neighbor came over to introduce herself and leave a large plate of delicious, homemade cookies. One of the first questions I asked her was, "When is trash day?"

When she told me Friday, I was elated because Friday has never been able to sneak up on me. I always see it coming; there's always something wonderful to anticipate about Friday. And now I could add Trash Day to the list!

Imagine my confusion when I wheeled our can out to the street first thing that first Friday morning, only to have my nice neighbor sheepishly clarify, "I guess I should have told you: they come at 3 a.m. You'll have to leave it out Thursday night." My heart sank to my stomach like a huge, indigestible brick. This was no way to start my life as a responsible home owner!

I blinked back the tears and acted like it was no big deal, but that image of my half-clad, sprinting mother came back to my memory with jarring force. This could only mean one thing.

I am destined to be the One the garbage man forgot. It's in my genes. I'm marked. I cannot escape the curse. 

I've tried to take this crushing destiny in stride.

One week, when the garbage truck came rolling through the neighborhood at 3 a.m., my subconscious took inventory, reminded me that I had not taken the cans to the street, and awakened me with a startling shake. I threw on my robe, slipped on my husband's big boots, and sobbing desperate tears, I pulled our garbage can to the street. I looked over my shoulder to see the trash man turning the corner; I couldn't be sure if he had already done our side of the street. There was only one thing to do.

 I squinted in the headlights of his truck. I looked up at him with pleading, watery eyes, and whispered, "Please, please take my trash! I can't live with this for another week." When I was sure I had inspired sympathy and action, I sloshed back through the cold sludge on the driveway and stumbled to my bed.

Morning came; I ran down the driveway to retrieve the can, only to find it full. I cried out in despair, "Oh, why don't I live next door to a widow?" I wished mean things upon the garbage man with out any feeling in his cold, dark heart. And for the next week, I rationed the rubbish. If there was any way we could keep the trash, I required it.

Another week, I awakened again, in the early hours before dawn, remembered I had not taken out the trash, and again lugged our can down the driveway, hoping I beat the truck this time. When morning came, I told my husband in a smug voice that he needn't worry, I was pretty sure I had taken the trash out in the knick of time. He informed me that it was Wednesday.

One Thursday morning, when we had twelve family members visiting, I pleaded with one of them to please remind me to take out the trash. He did. The next morning. Friday morning. At 11 a.m.

One blessed Friday morning, I awakened with the familiar sinking feeling in my chest. My joy knew no bounds when I found my empty can on the street with a kind note from our garbage man about how he noticed we forgot and he wanted to help us out. I dropped to my knees in grateful prayer. And to express my gratitude, the following week, I left some baked goods for him.

Slowly, I have come to learn the lesson everyone else instinctively knows. I have to remember the garbage, or rot in it. Those are my only viable options.

I've had many, many weeks of alternating remembering and rotting. Have you ever rotted in waste? It's a terrible lot in life.

But this story has a happy ending.

Two wintery nights ago, Thursday night to be exact, as I was slipping off to sleep in the warm comfort of my bed. I thought of my garbage man, who would have to drive his truck through the icy, cold streets of town in just a few short hours. My compassion and love for this man grew, and I whispered a prayer for his safety and a blessing for his service. I meant every word. And I guess heaven accepted my change of heart and decided to lift the curse.

The next morning, I was casually informed by a different neighbor that if you forget to put your garbage out, you can always call and they will make a special trip--just for you. What rapture!

Maybe my destiny can change. Maybe Emerson was a smart guy after all. I can become the girl I've decided to be:

The One who has the garbage man's number on speed dial.

Hope for the Future

My friend asked for some advice on Facebook. She wanted to know how she could keep her resolution to feel peace when our current president and the state of the nation makes her feel so angry.

This was a timely question for her to pose--not because I have the answer, but because I need to figure that out, too. How in the world are we supposed to feel hope when so much of the world inspires despair?

I've given many deep thoughts about this--which are a rarity for me right now--and after many hours of speculation and mental exertion. . .I still don't have the answer. At least not fully, anyway.

But I found a large portion of the answer in my children.

Have you ever looked at a child? I mean really looked? I mean looked until you could see through the eyes into the shimmering majesty of the soul?

My house is full of children that I'm nurturing all day long, and still, I must confess that I don't do this enough.

When you really see into the soul of a child, you at once become humbled. You are taught.

There is no guile, no hypocrisy, no malice of any kind. No envy, no hatred, no lies.

There is only endless potential, shining joy, bright faith. Only truth, trust, belief, forgiveness. Only pure, unsullied love.

And luminous, lasting hope.

I'm betting that this nation will be preserved because of the faith and goodness of the world's children who know God now, and who will never forsake Him, no matter how difficult the battle may be.

I want to be counted among those soldiers--the ones who love God, the ones He will never forsake.

A Heavy Load

I've been thinking about the correlation between perspective and reality. Luckily, there is a very broad chasm between the two. The big picture is usually so much different than the little picture. But without the broader view, I wouldn't be able to face the narrow moments with joy--even enthusiasm.

I'll illustrate with the explanation of my laundry room. I actually love to do laundry because it's measurable improvement; that is, I can see that my hard work has actually made a difference. And so much of motherhood is the exact opposite of that.

When my fifth child was born, I had to come up with a new survival plan. What I've developed is: First attend to the loudest scream. Fix that. Then move to the next. The screaming cue is usually filled up-- not with children, but with the mundane tasks of the day.

Laundry is rarely at the top of that list, because with just two or three loads, most everyone can have clean underwear, pants, and a shirt. But to do all the laundry in the house at once (including sheets, blankets, coats, towels, etc.), nothing else can be screaming for my attention. And when does that ever happen?

Well, never, actually.

Over the Christmas holiday, I got really close. I had just two loads left. As the pile of clean clothes on the laundry room counter receded, a glimmer of perspective came into view once again.

There are two important reminders in my laundry room--its only decor.

First, there is a sign that says, "Families and laundry are eternal". This feels so true, even though it's not true about the laundry. (Eventually I'll die, and the laundry won't follow me. But it might be what kills me.)

Second, there is a picture by Walter Rane of the empty tomb. There is no Savior there--only the laundry that He left. I love this picture in that space because I am reminded that even laundry is sacred when its purpose is to nurture a ransomed life.

Combined, these two reminders give me glowing perspective, imbued with sparkling clean power--just what I need when I'm rinsing out the filth from the clothing of the people I love.

Then enters reality.

I hadn't seen these two items--the sign and the picture--for about four months because the piles of washed, folded laundry were always covering them. The articles in the piles changed, but their height rarely did. In all those months, I was missing the perspective that could have given me the joy I needed in my daily laundry battles.

So I've come up with a solution. Tonight, when the kids go to bed, I'll pull out a ladder and nail those puppies to the ceiling. Surely the laundry won't reach there.

Or, I'll throw in a live grenade, shut the door, and go in tomorrow morning with the Shop Vac and clean up the ashes.

Either way, I've found joy in the mundane. And that's what perspective is all about.

Happy New Year

Guys. I have some great news.

I haven't eaten ANY sugar. This. Whole. Year.

And I've exercised. Every. Single. Day.

Also, I've been patient. Loving. Faithful. Industrious. 

It's just the best year of my whole life. And it's going to get even better. Know how I know that?

Because while I'm typing this, there are only six minutes left until our homemade pizza rolls will be piping hot, fresh from the oven, ready to be consumed.

And there's a one-year-old who is kissing my shoulder with her puckered, blueberry yogurt-covered lips. Even the pizza rolls don't hold a candle to that.

And there's an unborn baby poking me, forcing me to pause and think about the sanctity and miracle of life. I know I can change my future. This year, I'm going to act like it.

And best of all, I've ushered in enough new years to know that I will most assuredly fail this year. But that doesn't matter; as long as I keep moving forward. Every day can be a new start. 

Here's to becoming my best self in the best year ever.

...So far. 

Night Watch

Men and women are just plain wired differently. I love this about us. Some women think we should be equals.

Not me. 

I like how we're programmed for different tasks. It's better off this way.

Allow me to illustrate with the, "Who's Turn Is It To Wake Up?" routine we've been doing almost every night for the past eleven plus years.

The baby (whomever it is at the time) wakes up and needs to be rescued from the crib.

Mickey brings the baby to me for a feeding, and goes back to sleep.

The toddler bursts into our room just one hour after we've fallen asleep, shivering from fright, and needs to be cuddled. I pull that toddler into bed beside me and whisper confident reassurances.

Mickey takes note, and goes back to sleep.

The five-year-old is done sleeping for the night by 4:30 am. I awaken with Sweet Girl (read: Dream Thief), treat her like she's the best thing I've seen all day (instead of like the only thing I've seen all day), make her breakfast, and watch cartoons with her.

Mickey misses this entirely.

But when there is a small scratching on the window, whether it's an intruder or a branch scraping the pane, Mickey is instantly awake, patrolling the house with a firearm and double checking all windows and doors.

I sleep through all of this. In fact, I would never know he was up at all, except for his groggy walk and droopy eyes the next morning. They always tip me off. And then I just feel guilty. I mean, what kind of "partner" snores through a life-and-death situation?


This girl.


This is our unwritten agreement. We've never discussed the terms, talked through the division of the tasks, or held a meeting to work out the details. We just inherently know our individual part. (Incidentally, we dance like this, too. He leads, I follow, we have no planned routine, we laugh at each other's antics, and the judges give us fourth place out of three hundred and fifty couples. It's how we keep our marriage exciting and fresh, I guess.)

I had no idea how oblivious I was to all of this until Mickey went away on a business trip. We were living in Baltimore at the time, and I awakened to a loud noise. Since all the children were sleeping in my room, it made no sense for me to leave them and go to investigate.

Also, I was waaaay too scared to do that.

So I just tiptoed over to the closet, pulled out my shotgun, slid the chamber open and closed, open and closed several times, walked over to my top drawer to retrieve my bullet, and then sat on our bed, crossed legged, staring at the bedroom door, gun at the ready.

(On a side note, Mickey's wiring has helped me fine tune this defense tactic. Now, if I have to dispose of an intruder in the middle of the night, I can use a suppressed firearm with a laser and night vision. He has a point: there's no need to wake up the children with all that noise. Who wants to be cleaning up blood and coaxing the children to go back to bed? That would just be a nightmare.)

Another time when Mickey was away, I awakened in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, but I had to hold it until dawn because there was a strange blue light coming through that little crack under the door, and I was terrified that aliens or some such thing were waiting in ambush should I open my bedroom door in attempt to discover the source of the eerie glow. Instead, I pulled the gun out of the safe, strained to hear any noises, prayed my dogs were alive, counted the heads of my sleeping children, and texted my husband so he would know where to start the search should he come home to find his family missing.

If we get technical about it all, my night watch is more frequent than his, but I'm okay with it because I'd rather address a crying baby than an armed thief--any day or night.

Every so often, we put into play another unwritten maneuver. If I have had several sleepless nights in a row, I become so tired that I will sleep through everything--even the crying baby. I stay in the same position all night, and when morning comes, I'm refreshed and ready to assume my night watch again. Also, I give Mickey a nap this day.

One night last week, I awakened refreshed, and oddly, Mickey was, too. I was wondering aloud that everyone slept through the night when he cleared his throat to cut me off. He explained that our sons had come to our room in the middle of the night, afraid because they had heard loud, suspicious noises.

Mickey retrieved his Glock 27 from the safe in his night stand and then talked through the search plan with the boys. (He actually might have done all of this with hand signals; I'm not sure.) Then, they proceeded to do a search of the entire premises, Mickey at the front, boys "watching his six" and making sure the bad guys didn't double back.

I picture Mickey wearing his pajamas, rocking his bed head, his Glock at perfect aim, peering around corners, and trusting that our bare-chested, young sons have got his back. I see the bathroom door flying open from a well-positioned kick, the boys running in from behind, and giving the "Clear!" call. Mickey then wordlessly points to his eyes, uses one finger to point at the eldest, two fingers to point at the second son, then gives a quick double-wave, stiff fingered motion before they all move on to the next room. I'm also betting the boys were suppressing war whoops while Mickey wore a smirk.

But since I was sleeping, I can't be sure how it all went down, and I can't criticize his fathering style. He's very good about snatching up those spontaneous teaching moments. He's also a brilliant strategist to let me sleep while he's training his heirs on the intricacies of a thorough manhunt.

However, I think I'll sleep even better if I buy my boys those bullet-proof vests I've had my eye on since two Christmases past and make them all sleep in black pajamas and ski masks.

Also, I'm starting to wonder if my dream last night about a S.W.A.T. team on the roof wasn't really a dream after all....

In the Moment

It's just about lunch time. The four loaves of whole wheat bread I made fill the air with their warm, hearty goodness. My seven-year-old wants a piece now, but concedes to wait until the bread isn't too hot. My five-year-old passes the minutes until lunch by looking at the bread, her eyes just clearing the top of the counter. She exclaims her awe over the beauty of the deliciousness.

My eleven-year-old is sneezing on the couch, worrying that his allergic, red eyes make him look silly. He wears sunglasses to abate the embarrassment and plucks out "Pirates of the Caribbean" on his guitar. My baby is dancing to his music, stealing his sunglasses, and stomping to the beat that she feels deep in her soul.

She toddles in to me, tripping over the big, pink sneakers she's been wearing all morning. She has her own shoes, but her sister's are infinitely more desirable. Her tummy is full, since she just snacked on leftover waffles and shared them with her beloved doggie. She whimpers for me to hold her, and when she refuses a drink, I can tell it's time for her nap.

I lie down with her and sing her lullabies. Today we are only interrupted three times. My five-year-old is tattling on my three-year-old, who has put sparkly smiley stickers all over the back of the piano. She agrees to help in the removal process, and to whisper and tiptoe if she needs to come back in. Her hair is wild and gorgeous, a fitting top to her carefree, fun-loving soul.

My seven-year-old wants to make homemade juice pops. This is his biggest dream. I don't have molds for that. I have to get creative and solve this problem. I'm grateful his wish is one that I can make come true. Someday I won't have the answer. But for today, I am enough. And that feels good.

My husband calls. He needs to hear my voice. That makes me tear up. His voice encourages, soothes, grunts understanding, expresses love. Clinic is over in just one hour. I can't wait to be held in the arms that belong to his voice.

While I type, I beg my three-year-old to brush my hair. She tugs out the hair band, and then goes to get her purple comb. While she combs, her narration is continuous. Her voice is sweetly scratchy, and I listen to her thoughts. She starts with the things that matter most, and then moves to the extras.

"Mom, Jesus died on the cross. But now He's resurrected. I have my purple comb. You have a lot of hair." Her comb gets stuck in the gnarly mass; she leaves it and runs outside to play in the sunshine.

Is this one of the reasons we should be more like children? They know the fundamentals and place them first, filling in the gaps with the things they love the best, moving along at a pace that is great for them--regardless of anyone else in their world.

How do I adequately express my love for my family? Do they know how much I love them? Have I told them enough today? They fill my heart with what matters most.

I have to record these seemingly insignificant, precious moments that fill my life. They will expire too soon, like that quart of spinach artichoke dip in my refrigerator that I keep forgetting about.

God is so very, very good to me.